The Fourth Changy
by Cheri Lune
Summary: {Phantom of Manhatten Sequel} Pierre de Changyis older now, at least in his twenties, his father, Monsieur Erik, living in his home with only him knowing. Poor Pierre must raise a young girl alone with his other three boys. You Silvia loves to hear her fa


Silvia sat at her father's feet, his hand gently combing through her hair. She loved his tales of yore. And every evening he would tell her more of his story. Silvia gently ran her hand over the bandages around her foot, but listened as though they were the only people in the world.

"And the Angel of Music told Lotte about how he loved her ever so, and that he would guide her to be a victorious Prima Donna, to be recognized all over Paris, and one day, he would take her to America, and build her an opera house, bigger then any other." Pierre let the story unfurl around his daughter, for as long as he could he remember, his father Erik had always told him that story. Pierre paused for a moment, and remembered that dreadful night when his mother had been shot before his very eyes, and when he alas met his true father. Silvia tugged on the cuff on her father's sleeve.

"I know there's more Papa. Tell me the rest." Silvia had her Grandfather's horrid temper, and she often found things around the house that made her ask questions. One evening, while rummaging through her father's suitcases, she found a mask, and asked him about it. She found a papier-mâché music box later in the week, and learned its haunting melody, then continued questioning her father. The final question she had was about a violin she had found in the attic, and her father's patience was wearing thin.

"There isn't more, because the Angel never finished telling me the story." Silvia's eyes lit up with a sudden excitement.

"_You knew the Angel of_ _Music?" _Pierre quickly grew pale and rubbed his temples. But moved his hand, smiled and then followed with a nod, just to approve of his daughter's question. _At last…_ thought Pierre proudly to himself _a question of hers that I can answer!_

"Wow…what was he like? Did he smile a lot? What did he look like? What did his voice sound like? Was his voice as heavenly as so many people say?" Silvia rested her hand on her father's knee, and gripped the soft cloth of the pants tightly. "Well Papa?"

Pierre inhaled deeply, and prepared to answer all of her questions. "Yes, I knew the Angel of Music quite personally. He was a very strong man, both emotionally and physically. He didn't smile as often as most people, and if you were to ask him why, he would simply state 'What do I have to smile about?' He looked as normal as any other person…" Pierre paused. It pained him to lie to his daughter, but he felt that she wasn't able to understand how Erik truly appeared before the eyes of a normal person. "And his voice was as pure as that as a halleluiah choir. My child, if you were ever to hear the Angel, you would believe that you had heard the voice of God. But the Angel wasn't always kind hearted. He did have a few mishaps, a few things that couldn't be explained. But that isn't a problem anymore. The Angel is happy where he is." Pierre lifted his eyes to the attic. He had promised his father he would built the most beautiful home he could afford, and yet his father would not accept a room, but demanded an attic, which was why so many of the clues to the Phantom's mystery lie with the very attic above their heads.

Silvia got up and twirled around the room gleefully. She had taken dance lessons at her father's theater for years, and danced whenever she found the time, and as she began, he brothers ran into the room. Her eldest brother; Javert ran in waving a notebook around in his flailing hand, her second oldest brother; Charles ran in following him, laughing madly, and chasing after the two, with his face red with fury, was Philippe, as angry as he was, Philippe yelled at the two with an abrupt force.

"You bloody twits! Give me back my notebook now!" What no one had seen was that Philippe had his hands behind his back, and was grinning, as though wanting his brothers to say no. Javert paused for a moment, and glared at Silvia.

"Do you ever stop that blasted dancing? It's so girly!" He laughed, Charles laughed with him, but young Philippe remained silent.

"You can't stop me." Silvia sighed calmly. "I'll just keep dancing." Silvia limped on her fractured ankle, but continued through her routine just as she would have on a healed ankle, at least until she tripped. Silvia let out a shriek of pain, and clutched her ankle. Pierre, took his daughter's hand, and led her to the sofa, but kept his eyes on the trio of troubles.

"Why should we return your book Phil? So you can continue righting the rest of that lame Dun Jon of yours?" Charles barked strongly.

A growl rose in Philippe's throat. "It's called _Don Juan Triumphant. _I found the remains of it in the attic, and most of the composure of the opera has been destroyed, I'm trying to return it to its true state." Philippe pulled out a long piece of rope from behind his back, at the end of it was a loop, an item which Pierre knew quite well; the Punjab Lasso.

Pierre stood and slowly approached his youngest son. "Philippe, listen to me, I need you to put the Punjab Lasso down, now. There." Pierre pointed to the floor and Philippe listened, and his siblings were staring waywardly at their father, wondering how he knew the device. "That's a good boy. Now come tell me how you happened to come across this device of yours…" Philippe nodded and followed obediently, and as he sat down on the small sofa next to his sister, the soft leather felt cold against his skin. Pierre sat in the arm chair across from them, and a series of footsteps were heard from upstairs, Pierre seemed to be the only one who noticed, and he attempted to rush the children out of the room.

"Everyone get out of the room!" Pierre shouted, and almost got Charles out of the room, but a cloaked figure came down the stairs, and stopped as they entered the living room, and instantly took a seat on the opposite couch of the children, locking a gaze with Pierre, his eye's full of sudden shock.

"Whom was it who screamed?" The voice seemed to demand. The voice itself was powerful, strong, and seemed to take control of Silvia.

"I did…" Silvia stated. "I had hurt my ankle sometime back, and I was dancing…" The figure nodded and looked at Pierre through the hood of his cloak.

"Pierre. I thought I raised you better!" there seemed to be humor in the voice, Pierre stood, and shook hands with the figure, as though a reunion, and introduced the family.

"Children. Meet your grandfather, Erik." The man nodded, and pulled back the hood of the cloak, the boys fell back in fear, all but Philippe and Silvia. Charles and Javert had fallen back a bit, and the notebook fell to the floor. Philippe stood and bowed with respect.

"Philippe de Changy-" Philippe began before interrupted by his grandfather's sudden shock.

"Philippe?..." Pierre nodded. "After his step-grandfather?" Pierre nodded once again. But Erik extended his hand with pride, his grandson following suit and the two proudly exchanged their names. "And I would be your grandfather Erik, which ever fits you best." Erik's eyes traveled to young Silvia sitting on the couch, fiddling with the small lace fringe on her dress. "And you must be Silvia."

Silvia lifted her gaze and smiled in pride, he curtsied, and what she had not expected was that her grandfather would take her hand and kiss it, just as the gentlemen would do to the famous divas of Paris. Silvia blushed, and Erik rose from his seat, and whispered in her ear as he had begun to walk into the kitchen lifting the Punjab lasso from his feet.

_"Or perhaps the Angel of Music?"_


End file.
